


No Matter the Form

by hoomhum



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Full Shift Werewolves, M/M, Multi, Really just a bunch of fluff with the barest thread of plot running through it, Sherlock invokes nonsense, Werewolves, barely any plot, cute domestic werewolves though, pre-relationship for John and Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-12
Updated: 2019-04-12
Packaged: 2020-01-11 23:45:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18434603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoomhum/pseuds/hoomhum
Summary: Sometimes Mycroft is a wolf. Greg doesn’t mind. If anything, that’s one more night each month he’s guaranteed his partner’s company. Of course, that’s assuming Sherlock doesn’t interrupt them with his nonsense and one should never assume that about Sherlock, even if he has the same condition as his brother.





	No Matter the Form

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to Beltainefaerie for the beta, and to the lovely writers gang at 221b con for getting me off my butt to finish this.

 

Greg meant to leave the Yard at four, but inevitably one thing led to another and it was nearly a quarter past five by the time he managed to shut down his computer and hightail it out of the building. There was an alarm on his phone for sunset, and truly Mycroft could manage on his own—had managed on his own for years and years— but just because he could didn’t mean Greg thought he should have to do so. 

Mycroft could run the entire free world on his own. If Greg could help on this one night to make his partner’s life a little easier, he was going to. 

He walked the last five blocks to the townhouse they’d moved into together six months ago, too fed up with the slow pace of traffic to sit in the cab any longer, and met Anthea at the door with a worried smile.

“Tell me he’s home?” he asked, glancing up at the darkening sky. Her presence was a good sign, but her expression wasn’t. 

“I attempted to pull him from a meeting an hour ago and he refused. ETA five minutes.” The set of her jaw indicated she had a few words for her boss about his refusal, but those would wait until he’d recovered. Her focus was on her phone, manicured nails tapping steadily. “Your groceries are inside.”

“I’ll tell him off,” Greg promised, bussing her cheek and heading for the door. “You’re a lifesaver, Anthea!”

Five minutes was well enough time to strip out of his work things. He pulled on a pair of soft jeans, comfortable and familiar, and a t-shirt and jumper that were the same. After splashing his face to remove what he could of the smells of the office, he went back downstairs to set up the lounge. 

“You’re late,” he accused when he heard the front door open. Anthea had texted him upon relieving the day’s security personnel in the basement nest, so it had to be Mycroft coming in. His theory was proven a moment later when his lover appeared in the doorway, ashen-faced and frowning. 

“Oh, love,” Greg murmured, crossing to him immediately and taking his coat and briefcase. “This is why you should listen when she tries to pull you out.” 

Mycroft was trembling very slightly, his pupils dilated even as he fixed his eyes on Greg. “It was important.”

“You’re more important. Get changed before you ruin your suit,” Greg pecked his lips gently and steered him toward the stairs. “Go on. I’ve got everything handled down here.”

Mycroft didn’t need any further urging, long fingers already at his cuffs as he began to climb the stairs. For a moment Greg watched him—in part to make sure he made it to the top without stumbling, admittedly, but mostly to admire his partner. 

If he was honest, he loved these nights; a guarantee of his lover home at a reasonable hour and time spent together, if in an unconventional way. They’d been doing this long enough now to have their own routine to it, even. Mycroft preferred privacy for the shift itself, would take himself up to the bedroom to undress and then into the guest bath to shift—he refused to step foot in the bedroom as a wolf due to shedding—while downstairs Greg prepared dinner and set up the “den” for the evening.

At first, it had been difficult for Mycroft to express what Greg should expect, beyond the physical nature of the change. It was not a secret that he shared often; those who knew only had the information for security purposes and were unlikely to spend time in the presence of his second form. The moon, Mycroft had explained, suppressed the man in him and strengthened the wolf. Though neither was entirely able to silence the other, his ability to communicate and reason like a human was limited; his mind was driven more by emotions and sensations.

Mycroft on the job was posh, powerful, and impervious. At home he was witty, collected and charming. When he shifted, Greg met another side of him. The wolf was not quite playful, but he had a streak of mischief. He wasn’t hyper, but his steps were spry as he loped through their halls.

He was also unfailingly affectionate.

The clatter of claws on the stairs was Greg’s first warning that he was about to be ambushed. The wolf entered the kitchen at a trot, posture relaxed and head held high as it sought out Greg. Mycroft was still a leggy bastard, even on four paws; the tips of his russet coloured ears reached Greg’s naval, when the wolf wasn’t bouncing up to press his snout into Greg’s armpit or lick at his neck. 

“S’nice to see you too.” Greg buried his hands in the thick fur of Mycroft’s scruff, urging him down again. He scratched the wolf’s ears before letting his hands trail down to the white fur of his throat and cheeks. “You miss me, hm?”

Mycroft leaned in to the touch, nuzzling Greg’s hands with his wet nose and making low, pleased sounds in his throat. Greg indulged him for a moment, before pulling away to see to the supplies on the counter. 

“Here you are, love,” he said, setting a large serving bowl of fresh water on the floor as Mycroft sniffed around the room. “I’ll just be a mo’ with your dinner.”

He let his fingers trail lightly in the wolf’s fur before beginning to transfer meat from the butcher’s packages into another serving bowl. He couldn’t help the small grin on his lips as Mycroft nosed at the counter, tongue darting out to seek any juice that had escaped the packaging. 

“Impatient,” he chided, before the setting the bowl where his love could reach it. Mycroft huffed in response, his tail flicking eagerly as he tucked into the meal in front of him. Still smiling to himself, Greg left him to it, discarding the wrappers and wiping down the counters before quickly pulling together a sandwich for himself.

 

Once he had finished, he moved into the lounge, knowing Mycroft would follow him there when he was done. He made straight for the cabinet beneath the media centre, which was stocked full of cushions, pillows, and blankets. There’d be no retreating to the bedroom tonight: the wolf preferred his den and Mycroft preferred his own bed to be fur-free. Nevertheless, Greg made it a point to use these blankets for movie nights and lazy Sunday mornings on the sofa, ensuring they smelled like more than laundry soap.

He made up a preliminary “den” of cushions and blankets, knowing the wolf would come in and arrange things to his liking. Still, Greg ensured there was enough to cushion himself from the floor, as he’d likely fall asleep out here and didn’t fancy a sore back. He’d just settled down to test the arrangement when Mycroft joined him, flopping down with his upper half in Greg’s lap. 

Greg was fairly certain that if it was physically possible for his lap to hold all 200 lbs of wolf, Mycroft would have situated himself like that instead.

As it was, he lay down and nudged insistently at Greg’s hands until the man began their petting routine. It started at his face, playful brushes over his eyebrows and down his snout, before stroking at his ears and around down to the thicker, shaggy fur of his cheeks and neck. Greg buried his hands in the soft, downy fur, smiling as Mycroft let out little groans of satisfaction. 

“I know,” Greg said quietly, scooting up to sit with his back against the sofa. “Didn’t say hello properly did I? Shame on me.” 

Mycroft wriggled at the change of position, baring his neck trustingly to the strong fingers of his mate. After their first night together like this he’d admitted, somewhat pink cheeked, that no one had ever touched him like that before. His entire family transformed on the moon and none were very prone to affection. Greg offered to stop if it made him uncomfortable, but Mycroft had been quick to assure him it did not.

Once he’d paid enough attention to the wolf’s face and ears, Mycroft got distracted and took up Greg’s left hand in his mouth. It was a habit he’d had from the start—a frightening one at first, when Greg found his fingers in contact with incisors that could easily dismember him—but it seemed all the wolf wanted was to hold him like this. It was harmless, but not altogether comfortable.

“Go and get your cube,” Greg said, carefully extracting his (now wet) hand. He wiped it on his jeans and nudged the wolf back toward the media centre cabinet. “Get your cube and you can have the rest of your cuddles.”

Mycroft chuffed, licking at Greg’s face instead, before heading back to the cubby to retrieve his toy. 

The cube, comprised of woven lengths of a decommissioned fire hose, had been Greg’s first gift to the wolf, discounting food, and their first compromise. He hadn’t discussed it with Mycroft first, but the wolf had taken to it eagerly and Mycroft had offered him a sweet, grateful kiss the next morning, even if they didn’t speak of it.

Toy collected, Mycroft dropped himself once again in Greg’s lap. He tipped his head to the side, giving Greg a look that clearly said,  _ Well? What are you waiting for? _

With a chuckle, Greg resumed petting, scratching down Mycroft’s neck and rubbing at his shoulders. He stroked both flanks, shifting from one side to the other as Mycroft squirmed in his lap, guiding him to the places that needed to be rubbed. The cube had been deemed an acceptable replacement for holding on to Greg’s hand or arm when the wolf realized that it meant Greg’s affection could be more easily bestowed with both limbs free to work. The wolf huffed his approval around the toy in his mouth, making small grunts of pleasure as Greg rubbed his chest and belly. 

Then, apropos of what seemed to Greg to be nothing at all, Mycroft sat up. His cube fell into the blankets, forgotten, and his ears pitched forward.

“My?” A second later Greg’s phone dinged with an incoming message from Anthea. Even as he sat up to grab his phone, Mycroft carefully stepped free of the cushions and trotted from the room.

_ Incoming, one consulting detective. He’s breached the back garden. -A _

Caught between worry and frustration, Greg hurried after his mate. By the time he reached the hall, he could hear Sherlock outside, scratching and whining balefully to be let in. Mycroft sat near the door, looking unimpressed. 

“He’s lucky he didn’t get picked up by animal control.” Greg sighed, reaching for the latch. 

Sherlock darted past them both, a shaggy streak of black and silver. He didn’t stop running, slipping on the hardwood floor as he turned a sharp circle around the entryway and pounced on his brother. 

Mycroft bore Sherlock’s antics with a longsuffering expression, unmoving as the anxious wolf quickly turned to Greg, still whimpering and whining. 

“What’s wrong?” Greg asked, running his hands quickly over Sherlock’s ears and taking in his state. He didn’t seem to be injured, at least, which was something of a relief. Given Mycroft’s unsympathetic reaction, it was something he’d known about before the shift. Even as he glanced at his mate, Mycroft stood and headed back towards the lounge.

Greg followed, scratching at Sherlock’s ears absently as he did so until the wolf pulled ahead, jumping over his brother. When Greg caught up, he found them both sitting amidst the cushions. Mycroft was sitting on top of his brother’s head, having clearly just won a brief tussle. He poked his nose at the side table, where his phone lay, and Greg gave him a pat of thanks before picking it up.

On any other night, it would have taken a thumbprint scan to open Mycroft Holmes’ phone. It was no small thing that the man changed the security to a passcode, a certain date of meaning to the both of them, on full moons to allow Greg full access in cases of emergency like this one.  In moments, he was able to pull up the last text conversation between Mycroft and his brother.

_ He knows. -SH _

_ I assure you, he does not. -MH _

_ He suspects, then. -SH _

_ Suspicions mean little without evidence, brother. Or have you forgotten? -MH _

_ Don’t be snide. -SH _

_ If you tell him there will be no need for suspicion. -MH _

_ Not now. He’s yelling about the microwave. -SH _

_ As you will, then. Have you obtained a safe place for tonight? -MH _

_ I sent him away. I’ll use the flat. -SH _

The conversation ended there, with Mycroft displaying more patience and restraint than Greg would have by not pointing out that Sherlock was making a massive idiot of himself. No wonder he was sitting on his brother. Rolling his eyes, Greg set the phone aside and sat down on the sofa near the two wolves. 

“You’re worried about John, hm?” he asked. Sherlock wriggled, enough to unsettle but not fully dislodge his brother. Greg patted the darker wolf’s side reassuringly. “Well, if it helps, he’s definitely not guessed this is what you’re up to. Sneaking about and ordering him out of the flat is pretty suspicious though.”

Mycroft stood as Sherlock wriggled again and stepped up onto the sofa, sitting beside Greg and placing a single paw upon his arm, as though to say  _ You’re meant to be petting  _ me _ not him _ . If eye rolling was a habit of wolves, Greg wouldn’t have been surprised to see Mycroft do it just then, as Sherlock quickly followed him up, settling on Greg’s other side and whining.

“It’s bothered you so badly it’s made your wolf all anxious,” Greg told him, resting a reassuring hand in Mycroft’s ruff. “And it’s a problem only you can solve.”

Sherlock whined some more, stamping his paws and turning about restlessly on the cushion beside Greg. In his current state, Greg couldn’t tell if Sherlock could actually understand him, or was just reacting to his voice and to the anxiety his human form had tried to lock away. On the off chance he could understand, he went on.

“Tell John. Tell him tomorrow, soon as you can. He’ll accept it. I’ve never seen a bloke more dedicated to anyone than John Watson is to you.”

Beside him, Mycroft made a soft chuffing sound and laid his head in Greg’s lap. Greg automatically laid his hand atop the wolf’s head, scratching gently. “Current company excluded, of course. Though if you could wait another week before you make any declarations, I’ve got money on an even numbered month.”

Sherlock gave a huff and leaped down from the sofa, into the nest of blankets and cushions. He began to pace the length of the room, pausing here and there to uncover a pillow or rifle through a blanket, generally making a mess of things. Even as a wolf he was a diva. It was Greg’s turn to roll his eyes, before turning his attention once more to the russet wolf laying in his lap. Mycroft was watching his brother’s every step, alert and tense as the wolf dug through their den.

“Sorry, love,” Greg murmured, bending to press a kiss to Mycroft’s brow. “He’ll settle down eventually, with any luck. We’ll set it right again. You just relax here with me.” 

He sat back and applied both hands to the task of massaging Mycroft’s face, scrubbing his brow with his thumbs and digging his fingers into the thick fur of his cheeks until some of the tension began to bleed out of his wolf. It had just started to work when his phone went off.

_ Doctor Watson has just exited a cab and is approaching the house.  -A _

Greg shot to his feet, dislodging his partner without warning. He didn’t bother responding to the text, sliding his phone away again with one hand while the other stroked Mycroft’s ears in silent apology. 

“Oi,” he said, before whistling sharply when the word didn’t catch Sherlock’s attention. The whistle did. “You two stay in here and be quiet, alright?” 

Mycroft, sitting up on the sofa, watched him with what seemed to be a serious gaze. Sherlock stopped in his rampage for a moment, but was quick to turn away again. Greg caught him by the scruff and knelt down to look into his eyes, even as the doorbell rang.

“If you don’t want to give John a nasty shock, then stay here and  _ be quiet _ , alright?” 

He stroked the dark haired wolf’s snout once and stood again, making for the front door. He got there just as the doorbell sounded again, and took just a moment to clear his expression of any lingering anxiety or worry. 

“Hey, John. Everything alright?” 

It was a reasonable enough question to ask, given the look of the man on the doorstep. There was an intense, quiet anxiety radiating through John, clear in his dishevelled hair and agitated grimace. 

“Sorry to drop in on you—it’s just… Sherlock’s dropped off the map, as far as I can tell. He isn’t here, is he?”

Greg could lie well enough when it was necessary, as it sometimes was on the job, but it wasn’t a skill he enjoyed using on his friends. This wasn’t his secret to reveal, though, so he shook his head.

“Fraid not, mate.” 

“Damn,” John sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face and up through his hair. “I just thought—well. Dunno, what I thought, but I was near here, so I figured I’d check. He nearly tossed me out of the flat, but then he stopped texting me back… I phoned Mrs Hudson, and she said his mobile and his coat were still at Baker Street, but no sign of him.” 

“You know how he is, always running off after something. I’m sure he’ll be—”

Greg’s attempts to placate and divert were interrupted by the sound of a crash, an alarmed bark, and growling. Greg winced and barrelled onward.

“Fine. He’ll be fine.” 

“Did you—"

There were several more thuds and then the growling turned to snarling, which prompted Greg to abandon John at the door. Turning on his heel, he ran back toward the den. He registered John’s exclamation of concern and the footsteps that followed behind his own, but didn’t have the wherewithal to care. What mattered was getting to Mycroft, and finding out what was making the wolves snarl like that. 

The answer was immediately evident upon arriving in the lounge: each other. 

Or rather, more specifically, Sherlock’s possession of the firehose cube. 

The wolf was a blur of black and grey, darting around the room with the yellow cube held aloft. He ran wild, tearing across the length of the room before catapulting himself onto the sofa and over the back of it, before taking off again. A strap had come unwoven and flapped wildly as he ran, weaving around the furniture.

It was near the fallen end table that Mycroft stood, head turning rapidly to take in his brother’s course. Greg had barely arrived in the doorway when Mycroft pounced with precision, tackling his brother and tossing him to the floor with a snarl and another resounding thump.

Sherlock yelped, losing the cube in the face of Mycroft’s attack. There was a tense moment when both wolves looked at where it had fallen, but rather than grabbing for it again, Sherlock squirmed onto his back and nipped at the air near Mycroft’s face.

“Christ,” Greg mumbled, letting out a weary sigh of relief. He was just trying to play. The idiot. 

Mycroft batted at his brother’s snout before deftly picking up the cube by its loose flap and trotting over to where Greg stood. His ears twitched and his eyes widened woefully as he offered the toy up. 

“Daft thing,” Greg said softly, crouching down to take the cube from him. “It isn’t beyond repair.” 

He took the loose strap and wove it in again, under and over, then under again until the toy was as good as new. Mycroft stepped forward, pressing his face into Greg’s and offering him little wet kisses in thanks. The force of it was enough to knock Greg on his arse with a laugh and he went without a complaint, pulling the wolf back with him. 

It was only then that he realized Sherlock had stepped past them and that Greg’s laugh wasn’t the only one in the room.

John was on his knees, one hand buried in Sherlock’s ruff while the other stroked over his ears. 

“You nutter. This is what you’ve been hiding from me?” He knocked his forehead playfully against the wolf’s. “Idiot.”

“You knew?”

“Well, not that he was one,” John said, shaking his head and shaking Sherlock’s for him as well. The wolf was grinning, tongue lolling out. “But my sister, Harry, has the gene. Got it from her dad.”

“He was worried how you’d take it-- sorry about the deception,” Greg replied, nodding at Sherlock. He let out an ‘oof’ as Mycroft crawled up into his lap, knocking him down onto his back and settling on top of him.

John waved off his apology, directing a surprised "Really?" to the wolf in front of him. “I’m your blind spot I suppose, aren’t I?”

From where he was positioned with his head against Greg’s chest Mycroft let out a soft woof. Greg soothed him, stroking down his ears and neck.

“Looks like we’re intruding.” John chuckled. He pushed up to his feet. “We’ll get out of your hair. Thanks for looking after him, Greg. Mycroft.” 

Greg gave a lazy salute from the floor, unable to do much more with Mycroft holding him down. He heard and to some degree felt Sherlock scamper from the room. Once the door had closed, he tried to sit up on his elbows, though Mycroft refused to move.

“Alright, love, I don’t mind the position, but the hardwood isn’t doing my back any favours. Any chance we could move to the cushions we put down for this exact purpose?”

Mycroft huffed and licked his chin before clambering off of him. Greg rolled over onto his knees and stood. He looked at the damage wrought by Sherlock with the zoomies and shook his head, righting the side table. Mycroft followed his cue and began dragging the pillows and blankets into their appropriate places. 

When all was said and done, their little nest was looking quite cosy. Greg was happy to flop back down, after grabbing a remote and putting on a football match he’d recorded from a few days ago. In his human form Mycroft only had a passing interest in the game, but the wolf had a keen eye for the ball on the screen, watching it with an adorable intensity. 

“C’mere, you,” he murmured, holding out a beckoning arm. Mycroft trotted over and settled half on top of him again, a heavy and warm comforting weight. “Alright?”

He got a contented snuffle in agreement. 

“Just us again,” he told his partner quietly, ruffling the wolf’s fur idly. “Safe and sound.”

Mycroft didn’t respond aloud, but stretched out for a moment, before flopping bonelessly again atop of Greg.

“Yeah,” Greg murmured. “Love you too.”

~

He woke up wrapped in long, bare limbs, Mycroft draped over him. Somehow in the night the wolf had snuggled beneath the quilt and the heat of his transformation back had been trapped beneath it. Greg flipped the blanket down, baring the pale, freckled skin of his lover to the cooler air and letting out a contented sigh of relief as the excess heat dispersed. 

“C’mon love,” he murmured softly, dragging one hand down Mycroft’s back, between his shoulder blades. “Wakey, wakey. Just enough to get to bed proper.”

Mycroft would deny it if he ever said so, but Greg found the little wrinkle of disgruntlement that pinched his nose and brows adorable. His lover grumbled a negative, tucking his face into Greg’s shoulder.

“Time to relocate, darlin’,” Greg insisted, kissing his temple. He grasped the edge of the blanket and began to waft it, breaking the seal of warmth around their legs. His own lower half was nicely insulated by his pyjama pants, but Mycroft was entirely nude after the shift. “C’mon, get off me, and we can go have a nice lie in in that ridiculously overlarge bed you insisted on getting.”

“You like our big bed,” came the slightly smug reply, slightly muffled by the fact that Mycroft was speaking directly against Greg’s skin. “Don’t dissemble. And quit that.” His hand darted out to clamp down on the blanket.

“I do. I’d like to be laying in it right now.” Greg offered him another kiss, unable to keep the smile from his voice. “I’m helping. The wolf sheds like mad. Don’t want any of it getting stuck in your arse.”

Mycroft snorted. “My arse thanks you.”

“Come to bed?” Greg asked again, one hand still tracing the lines of Mycroft’s back. The other found the man’s chin and tilted it up to capture his lips in a lazy kiss. “I’ll make breakfast for you later.”

“Mm, but will I get more of those?” Their breaths mingled as Mycroft refused to pull away. Greg found he didn’t mind. He kissed him again, slow and gentle. 

“Yes,” he promised. “As many as you like.” 

Then with a controlled but swift movement, he flipped them, dumping Mycroft on his back and climbing to his feet. “I’ll be upstairs.”

  
  



End file.
